Let It Burn
by Twelve Winterflowers
Summary: She made him feel, so he thought it'd be okay to let her into his life. But she was already in it to begin with — she always had been and she always will be. "Partners never desert each other, ne Natsume?"


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Gakuen Alice. The image isn't mine, either. It's from the site digitaljournal.

* * *

**Let It Burn**

"Where have you been?"

She sounds indifferent (even looks it, calmly sipping whiskey in a corner of the dark room), but the slight catch in her voice gives her away—he knows she's jealous. Really, it's been nearly ten years since they were bound to the Academy as spies and three since they broke up, but she's still so bloody _obvious_.

"Somewhere," he says simply.

She puts the glass down, turning to look at him. Her eyes are flashing—she knows, of course she knows, and she's mad. She isn't dense anymore. But even if she was she'd still be able to tell where he'd been—he still reeks of alcohol and sex and lies, lies, lies. He knows it, too, but he doesn't care to distinguish lies from truth anymore, because really, what's the difference? "You promised you'd stay here," she grits out. "You promised you'd wait for me."

"_Promised_," he says, drawing the word out, watching her clench her fists in fury. "Really, Mikan, when have I ever kept my promises?"

"God." She stands and shoves him hard, tears already in her eyes. Oh, it's so, so easy to make her mad, so easy to make her cry. "I've been here for _three hours_! I waited because I thought you'd be—"

"I'm fine, see," he drawls.

She looks steadily at him, scrutinizing him. Her tears still don't fall, and it irritates him that they stay trapped in her large brown eyes. He wants to see them burn paths of hot saltwater down her cheeks; he wants to taste them, taste their innocence—the one she had lost to him long, long ago.

"When you need me," she tells him, "I won't come to you anymore."

"Fine," he says. "I don't need you."

She lets out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, and her tears fall with her laughter. She wipes them away before he could touch them. "Oh that's rich, Natsume. That's rich. You won't _survive _without me."

"Without your alice," he corrects. "I can find anyone with your alice, Yukihira. It's becoming pretty common, isn't it?" His lips twist into a sneer. "Don't flatter yourself. I only use you because you're convenient and you're willing—"

She slaps him. "You bastard," she says, her voice thin and shrill. She is mad (again—doesn't she tire of all those feelings?) but he isn't sure why. He's sure what he said was the truth... But ah, never mind. This is exactly why the difference between telling a lie and telling the truth doesn't matter—people get mad when you lie, people get mad when you tell the truth. "Fine, go find other people who're _convenient_ and _willing_. See if they can cure you. See if they'll even _try _curing some sick, dying asshole like you."

She whirls around and stomps out of the dark room, out into the flickering light of the dim hall. He doesn't run after her—hell no—but he listens to her angry footsteps, listens to her strangled sobs, and imagines her tears.

.

.

.

He still has two hours til dawn, two hours before he will allow himself to sleep. He's too tired to face the nightmares tonight, the nightmares in the dark that eat up even the shadows of his soul until he'd wake feeling empty and dead; so instead he waits for dawn and empties his mind and fills it with drink—just like how tired people do—and lets it wander.

He remembers the first time he met her. He was ten, already a slave of the Academy, already familiar with the various hells of the world. He'd already started to block his classmates out of his life, too, started to lose his patience with their inane talk on crushes and Howalons and Jinno. They didn't understand him; they _couldn't _understand that while they were worrying about tomorrow's quiz, he was worrying about tonight's mission; while they were worrying about whether they should eat Anna's cake or her cookies for dessert, he was worrying about whether he'd live or die tonight.

So he kept to himself. Occasionally he talked to Ruka, but more often he turned to his manga to escape reality, to bring back at least part of the childhood that the Academy had so cruelly taken from him. And, if he wasn't reading or eating, he was sleeping, recuperating for another all-night mission.

His ritual was disrupted when she came. At first, she seemed just like the others—happy, noisy, and so painfully stupid he often wondered how she had survived this long. She forced him to talk, forced him to interact with others, forced him to crawl out of his self-imposed prison. He didn't like it. In fact, he hated her for it. He'd insult her, set her hair on fire, make her cry, do _anything _to piss her off just as much as she had because her coming into his life had confused him—her coming into his life had upset a precarious balanced that was supposed to keep him sane.

Before he knew it, he started caring about crushes (only hers) and Howalons and Jinno because _she _did. His trips to Central Town became more frequent because _she _was always there. His hours in the library were longer because _she _needed his help in math or science or history or just about anything. And soon, soon, he realized she was breaking down his walls. He realized he could be himself around her—not a Dangerous Ability Alice-wielder, not the Academy's weapon. Around her he was just a boy, just Natsume; around her he was human.

She made him feel alive. That was why he hated her at first. She made him lose control over his emotions—she made him cranky, she made him jealous, she made him angry. But she also made him smile, and she also made him happy, and so he thought that maybe, it'd be okay to let her into his life.

Only she already was. She always had been, and she always will be.

.

.

.

He remembers the first time he realized he loved her. He was sixteen, and they were on a crucial, dangerous mission. They were supposed to infiltrate one of the smaller bases of the AAO to retrieve information, but the AAO had anticipated their arrival; they weren't ten feet from the base when gunshots were fired from the tops of trees and from behind the bushes. He was hit in the arm, and he knew she'd taken a bullet or two as well, but he didn't know that her wounds were fatal. All he knew was that they had to find cover, and fast—his only option then had been to create a distraction with his fire so they could escape, even if it risked drawing more attention to them.

They finally found refuge nearby, in the gnarled roots of a large tree. Once he declared them safe for the time being, she collapsed, clutching her chest, the blood from her wound staining the earth.

"You idiot!" he said, rushing to her side. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I—didn't—want to—worry—you," she said weakly, each word punctuated by a gasp of breath.

"For the love of—" He cursed and stripped off his black jacket. "Next time, tell me when you get hit. If it's fatal, tell me _right away_. Do you understand?"

He started unbuttoning her jacket as well, and she struggled against him. "What—are—you—_doing_—pervert—"

"I'm going to bandage it up so you won't bleed to death," he snapped. "Now hold still."

She finally stopped moving. He quickly removed her jacket and her shirt so that she was left only in her bra, but he was far too panicked to appreciate her near-naked body then. He ripped his jacket up and dressed the wound with the ease of someone who'd done it more times than he wanted to, noting that the bullet had just barely missed her heart, and then he dressed his wound as well.

"It—hurts," she panted, even after he had replaced her clothing.

"Shh," he said, despite the feeling of foreboding that rose in his gut. "Shh. Here, hold my hand. When it hurts again just squeeze it until it goes away, okay? Shh, don't cry…"

"I'm—not—crying," she insisted weakly, taking his hand and squeezing so hard that it felt limp afterwards. "I'm—sorry—I'm—such a—burden, Natsume—"

"Don't be stupid," he cut her off. "It's all Persona's fault. That bastard—he _knows _it's only your second mission…"

"I—was—supposed to be—ready." The tear tracks on her face were visible by moonlight, and still she was so beautiful, bleeding blood and sweat and tears. "I—was—supposed—to—protect—you."

"I don't need you to do that." _I was supposed to be the one protecting you._ "I've been doing this for six years now—oi! Keep your eyes open, Polka, come on. Don't die on me."

"But—so—sleepy—"

"No," he demanded, gripping her hand tighter. A fresh wave of panic rose in him and he realized belatedly that she could die right here and he'd lose her forever—he'd have to live with the fact that he had been careless enough to get them shot, to make them such easy targets—he'd have to live with the fact that he couldn't do anything and that he had simply watched her die. He'd have to live without her stupid smile and her insistent whining and all her messy emotions. He'd have to retreat back into his prison; he'd have to fall back on his old reclusive rituals again… and somehow that scared him, because damn, he didn't want to be alone anymore. No—it wasn't that he disliked being alone; he just didn't want to be without her. "Goddamn, Mikan, don't die on me. Keep your eyes open—_look _at me, Mikan—"

His pleas were in vain. Her eyes were drooping, and her breathing was slowing, and her grip on his hand was slacking. "Nat—su—me," she breathed, with a small smile. "I—love—you."

Those words were knives to his heart.

"Can you—kiss—me—please? Just—once…"

His eyes burned with unshed tears. He'd been so stupid—he should've kissed her a long, long time ago—should've loved her the way she deserved to be loved a long, long time ago. "If you stay awake, I'll kiss you all you want after," he said gruffly.

"Not—fair—"

"Take it or leave it, Polka."

"Just—one...?"

Those eyes—he would do anything for those eyes. And because he couldn't take it anymore, he kissed her—a long, tender kiss, a kiss long overdue, and a single treacherous tear trailed down his face to hers. When he pulled away, her eyes—_those eyes—_were bright and her pale lips were curved into a smile. "Stay with me, Polka," he whispered to her. "Remember The Bastard's rule? Partners never desert each other. Don't desert me now."

She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes once more. "I'm—sorry…" she said, and she breathed what he thought had been her last breath.

"Mikan!" he cried. "Dammit!" He checked her pulse again and again, but again and again he found none, and he let out a strangled noise of anguish. After a few moments of grief, he stood and lifted his head up towards the direction of the AAO base, his eyes filled with cold, hard resolve, and without hesitation he set it on fire. Within seconds alarms were sounded and screams were heard, and no matter how much water they used to douse it, it kept burning until the structure fell apart, until only charred remains were left smoking on the ground.

.

.

.

He returned to the Academy with her body in his arms, his earpiece long destroyed. He was violently reprimanded for his lack of control over his emotions and for the failure of a crucial mission, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not even when her body was wrestled away from him, not even when he was ushered into the torture chambers for one of the worst punishments he was to receive in his whole life.

After he'd received a hundred whiplashes on his back, after he'd been electrocuted until his nerve ends sizzled, after he'd been dunked over and over again in a tank of putrid sewer water, Persona had finally stopped firing insults and jeers at him. Natsume didn't know how accurate his memory was after that—he had been delirious with pain—but he could've sworn that what Persona told him next was said out of pity.

"You should've died in the gunfire, Natsume," he said. "It would've been a less painful way to die. If you live longer, if you live to be twenty-five, you'd die from your own Alice—it will eat you up slowly—it will burn you from the inside out… You should've died in the gunfire instead, Natsume, you should've died in the gunfire…"

.

.

.

He had forgotten about Persona's words the next day, when he was finally released from the torture chambers and sent to Subaru to be healed. To his surprise, he found her there too, hooked up to a machine that indicated that her heart was still beating. At first he wondered if his brain was still playing tricks on him from the many times he'd been electrocuted the night before, but Subaru had quickly explained that her alice had kept her alive. In near-death situations, it would slow all her body processes—"nullify" them, so to speak—to conserve what little energy and life force she still had left. The reason he couldn't detect a pulse was because her heart had been beating very, very slowly so that it was undetectable without a machine.

His joy had been so intense that he'd kissed her into consciousness, and when she smiled at him—a small, brave, beautiful half-smile—he vowed he'd never, ever let her go again.

.

.

.

But he did. He did, and he didn't just let her go—he shoved her out of his life. She tired him too much with her emotions, with her constant I-love-yous, with her dreams of getting married and running away from the Academy for good—things he'd never be able to do with her. _We're twenty-two, for God's sakes, and the Academy still owns us! _he yelled to her once. _How can you even _dream_ of freedom? How can you speak of love and hope and faith when they obviously no longer exist, and least not for us? Don't you understand, Mikan? _

She didn't understand. She didn't understand that the Academy had destroyed him already, had robbed him of his capacity to love. She didn't seem to feel that, though; didn't seem to sense the numbness that invaded his soul—a numbness that even she, _she, _with all her messy emotions, couldn't dispel. _We can still run away, Natsume, we can try, _she said, begging him with those eyes. _Run away with me..._

_No, _he snarled. _No. I'm sick of hoping. I'm sick of _you_. _

So he distanced himself from her. Told her that they'd only speak if necessary. Cocooned himself in vice—drugs, alcohol, sex—so that even if she tried to reach him, he'd already be in too deep to stop. He needed to do it—he'd destroy her too if he stayed with her any longer. And he really is sick of her, and of all the good she represents, of all the good he can never be and he can never give.

Now he is twenty-five, and he is dying—he is dying from his own alice. Perhaps this is punishment for treating her that way. Perhaps it's reprieve from the long, cruel life he had to live. Whatever it is, he's embracing it fully—death couldn't possibly be worse than life... could it?

Suddenly his whole arm goes numb, and the glass of whiskey shatters on the floor. Pain shoots through it fast, and searing his muscles as if they're being twisted by an invisible, powerful force, and the pain spreads to his shoulders and his torso and his legs until he's writhing on the floor. His lungs burn and his blood boils and he's screaming at the pain to stop and he realizes (just like every time he feels the pain) that he doesn't want to die—at least not like this—after all, like an animal and completely, utterly alone in the world...

She comes bursting into his room just moments after the onset of the pain. _Hasn't she left already?_ Oh, it doesn't matter—all that matters to him is that she's here, here, here, and she will make the pain stop—

"Shh, Natsume." Even as she hurries to his side he can already feel the soothing waves of her Alice rolling off her, taming the beast his alice had become, nullifying the burn of the fire. "Shh, I'm here."

She props his head on her lap and she runs her fingers through his hair as he struggles to catch his breath, clutching on the hem of her shirt. His muscles slowly unclench, and his lungs expand again. "You're so _pathetic_, Natsume," she tells him, but he senses there is no malice in her tone.

He wonders, not for the first time, if she still loves him—if she had ever stopped loving him. Probably not, because even after all his lies, his transgressions, his broken promises—even after she vowed to herself that she will not come to him—she's still here, looking at him with _those eyes, _and for a moment he feels a twinge of guilt. He knows he's nothing short of a monster for treating her like shit.

When he catches his breath, he props himself up and kisses her fiercely, assaulting her mouth with his tongue and her lower lip with his teeth. When he pulls away, she is gasping for air.

"A 'thank you' would have sufficed," she says when she recovers.

"Whatever happened to 'I won't come to you, no one will, you sick, dying asshole'?"

She sighs, resigned. "I don't know," she says. "I honestly don't know, Natsume."

He looks at her for a long time, and she meets his gaze unflinchingly. There are still tears at the corners of her eyes, and he brushes them away with his thumb and puts it to his lips. He tastes her pain, her sadness, her once-requited love. "Don't you ever get tired of crying?" he murmurs.

"I do," she says. "But the tears never stop."

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You're not," she returns. She's not angry—she's just stating a fact.

"You're right," he says. But if he is still capable of feeling sorry, he's sure he'd be sorry right now because he can't love her back. He can't give her freedom. He always takes her for granted. He always uses her and throws her away after... the list is too long for his memory and for paper.

He tries to stand, but the pain shoots through his legs again, and he crumples to the floor. She is instantly there to catch him, but this time he doesn't feel her alice. All he feels is the pain, the fire shooting through his veins; he can feel its greed, its anger, its hunger—he claws at his neck—his throat is burning—his eyes are bleeding—he can feel the tears of blood running down his cheeks, can see the droplets of red on the floor—burn marks are appearing, disappearing and reappearing again on his skin, and he knows his end is near—

"Get out," he rasps at her. "The fire—it'll eat you too—_get out_—"

"My alice..."

Comprehension dawns on her. He's been the master of his alice his whole life, but now it will master him, and nothing can stop it.

He bucks in pain and he throws up blood. His mouth is ridden with sores already and it _hurts hurts hurts_ to talk, but she needs to get away from him; his alice will devour them both. "Mikan—"

"Shh," she tells him. Instead of moving to the door, she moves even closer to him and touches her forehead to his burning one. "Partners never desert each other, ne Natsume?"

He tries to shove her away—she doesn't deserve to die like this, like she's being condemned with him; she deserves to be free, deserves to be loved, deserves to be _alive—_but she doesn't budge. "You didn't abandon me then," she tells him. "So I won't abandon you now. I never have."

"You... _idiot..._"

"Shh. It's time... We've lived far longer than we should have, don't you think?"

Silently he agrees.

She embraces him from behind, restraining his thrashing limbs, enraging the fire in his body; but he grabs her hands and holds them tight until his fingernails dig deep enough into the flesh of her palm to draw blood. She doesn't deserve this, but oh, she wants it and because he is selfish he won't refuse her. At least he will not die alone. He decides that for this moment, maybe he can love her like he did when they were sixteen.

With slow, heroic effort he forces himself to lie on his back so he can look into her eyes, so he can catch every teardrop that falls from them, so he can taste her happiness. They're twisted, they are, but at least they're together.

"It's time, Natsume," she whispers to his ear. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her head there. "We'll be free."

And so he lets it burn. The dark room and the dark streets below burst into angry, brilliant flames that lick and burn and devour; they roar at the treacherous night, at the laughing stars, at the fickle wind and the dying moon; they blanket everything in smoke, obscuring, outshining the first rays of the tardy sun; they consume everything and everyone they touched, both the innocent and the wicked, both light and shadows, until the two intertwined bodies in the dark room finally turn to dust, scattered by the fickle wind into the sky of the rosy dawn.

**end**


End file.
